Page 81 of Where She Belongs
As we head toward the elevators, I send Andrea a brief text:
Gabe:
Meeting went well. Coming back tomorrow. I’m here when you’re ready to talk—no pressure, no expectations. Whatever this is, we’ll face it together.
I don’t expect an immediate reply, and none comes. But I’ve said what matters most—that I’m returning, that I’m waiting, thatwhatever medical news she’s received, it doesn’t change how I feel.
The ball is in her court now. And I’ll be ready when she’s ready to talk.
TWENTY-TWO
My follow-up appointmentwith Dr. Reyes is scheduled for 9 AM, but I arrive at 8:30, unable to bear another minute alone with my thoughts. I’ve barely slept since sending that email to Gabe, since silencing my phone against his increasingly desperate attempts to reach me.
I check my phone—still on silent—and see five missed calls from Tristy, three from my mother, and too many from Gabe to count. The last text from him, sent an hour ago, makes my heart clench:
Gabe:
Just landed in Taos. Going straight to clinic. I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk. No pressure, no expectations. Whatever this is, we’ll face it together.
His patience, his understanding despite my cruel dismissal, only deepens my shame. What have I done?
“Andrea?” Dr. Reyes appears in the waiting room doorway, surprise evident in her expression. “We’re running ahead of schedule. Would you like to come back now?”
I follow her to the consultation room, perching on the edge of a chair as she reviews my results on her tablet. The wait is excruciating, each passing second stretching into infinity.
“So,” she finally says, looking up. “I’ve reviewed your complete results, including the follow-up bloodwork.”
I nod stiffly, bracing for confirmation of my worst fears.
“I have good news, actually,” she says, her tone brightening. “The initial FSH and estradiol readings that suggested premature ovarian failure were incorrect.”
I stare at her, not comprehending. “Incorrect?”
“We ran a more comprehensive panel, and your hormones show normal fluctuations for perimenopause—which is expected at your age—but nothing indicating POF.” She taps her screen, bringing up my full results. “Sometimes we get anomalous readings, especially when blood is drawn during certain points in your cycle. The lab should have flagged it for confirmation before uploading to the portal.”
I struggle to process her words. “So I don’t have premature ovarian failure?”
“No,” she says definitively. “You’re experiencing some perimenopausal symptoms, which is normal in your early forties, but your ovarian function is within normal parameters for your age. Your fertility is exactly what we’d expect—reduced from your twenties, certainly, but not eliminated.”
“But the portal said...” I can barely form the words, hope and disbelief warring in my chest.
Dr. Reyes sighs. “The portal showed you incomplete preliminary notes before they should have been released. That’s why we never give diagnoses based solely on initial readings. I’m going to have a serious conversation with the lab about their protocols.” She leans forward, expression softening. “Andrea, if you’re asking about pregnancy potential—with some basic fertility support, there’s no reason you couldn’t conceive if that’s something you want to pursue.”
The relief that floods me is immediately followed by horror as I realize what I’ve done—the relationship I’ve destroyed based on incomplete information, on panic, on my own insecurities projected onto medical terminology.
“Andrea?” Dr. Reyes’s voice seems to come from a great distance. “Are you alright? You’ve gone quite pale.”
“I made a mistake,” I whisper, more to myself than to her. “A terrible mistake.”
“Regarding what?” she asks, professional concern evident in her tone.
I shake my head, unable to explain the magnitude of my error, the relationship I’ve potentially ruined through my own fear and pride. “I jumped to conclusions. I should have waited for the complete results.”
Understanding dawns in her expression. “Did you make decisions based on those preliminary findings? Because if so, you should know they were just that—preliminary. Not definitive.”
“I did,” I admit, shame burning through me. “And now I don’t know if I can fix it.”
Dr. Reyes sighs, setting aside her tablet. “Andrea, as your doctor, I’m going to suggest something I rarely recommend: stop overthinking. Medical training is a blessing for diagnosis but a curse for patients who have just enough knowledge to terrify themselves.”
